


Shadows

by wilddragonflying



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Assassination, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Except for like, Most Dragons are Evil, Violence, one - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:10:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aran was Khajiit; his build, his very species, already favored stealth. Unfortunately, some idiot draconet had decided to attempt to "rescue" him from a brawl-- which he had been winning, thank you very much-- with some Stormcloaks, leading to his capture. His only consolation was that the Stormcloaks had been arrested as well.</p><p>Now if only he can escape this execution...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bleak Falls Barrow

**Author's Note:**

> So this just kind of came to me... I know that canonically, dragons are bad, evil, want to kill all mortalkind, etc., but I thought "what if that dragon that interrupted the execution was good..." And, well, this is the result. I'll try to update this fairly regularly as I work my way through the game.

Aran was furious.

He'd been minding his own business, simply attempting to pickpocket a few travelers, find a few extra coins, maybe a ring or two to sell, and then some bigoted Stormcloaks had decided to start something.

That something had led to an out-and-out brawl outside of town, and they'd been managing to  _not_ attract any Imperial attention, but then...

Well, then a dragon had almost literally fallen out of the sky.

She'd crushed a couple of the Stormcloaks, roared at the rest, and then taken off with a frightened-- well,  _yelp_ was all that Aran could think of to describe it-- when the Imperials had come running from the town.

Aran and the surviving Stormcloaks had been arrested, and he'd spent a good four months in prison because of that damned dragon. No one else believed that she-- and Aran wondered exactly how he knew that she was a she-- existed, but Aran was not one to doubt what his own eyes had told him.

Now, however, he was on his way to be executed. For what, Aran had no clue, but Imperials didn't really need a reason to flex their metaphorical muscles.

When the wagon stopped, and Aran stepped off, the Imperial looked him over, sniffing lightly. "Name, cat?" he sneered.

Aran bared his teeth, his ears flattening. "Aran," he growled.

"Last name?"

"Just Aran, you Imperial  _dog._ "

That earned him a sword butt to the gut, but Aran didn't care; he was going to die, so why not piss off some Imperials while he was at it?

Only, when it came time for his execution... Things didn't go so smoothly.

 _She_ showed up once again.

Aran watched the approaching dragon with dropped jaw; she'd grown quite a bit since the last time he'd seen her. When she'd interrupted his brawl, the dragon had been more of a draconet; only the size of a mid-size horse. Now, she was almost full-grown, big enough that if she were to stand on her hind legs, she wouldn't even have to stretch her neck to be taller than the tower she was perched on. _  
_

Then she chose to Shout at him, and he was knocked out.

***

It didn't take much to get out of the fort, and Aran debated killing the Stormcloak that he'd fallen in with-- after all, they were the reason he was in this mess in the first place-- but decided against it. Maybe he'd be useful.

The Stormcloak led him to Riverwood, where Aran quickly parted ways with him; he didn't want any more to do with Stormcloaks or Imperials. He was also grateful that the dragon hadn't decided to follow him from the fort. In Riverwood, Aran spoke with the Innkeeper, who told him of rumors of some kid attempting the Dark Sacrament-- Aran couldn't help the way his ears perked in interest. The innkeeper told him that the boy was named Aventus Arentino, and he lived in Windhelm. Aran made a mental note to head there as soon as possible. First, though, he needed supplies.

The shopkeeper told him that he'd give Aran a discount on the goods if Aran could return his clawed glove-- apparently it'd been stolen by some bandits who had a stronghold of sorts up in Bleak Falls Barrow. Aran agreed; after all, bandits were bad, and as far as Aran could tell, this was a decent man. A quick stop by the blacksmith's to purchase a better sword and to sharpen it, and Aran was ready.

The path up to Bleak Falls Barrow was easy to traverse, and as Aran got closer to a watchtower, he lowered himself into a crouch, quietly creeping up the slope. It was child's play to ease up behind the first bandit and slit his throat from behind before sheathing the dagger and pulling out his sword, calling up a small ball of flames in his left hand as he held his sword in his right, and battled the remaining bandits. They were amateur fighters, and went down soon enough, their clothes smoking. Aran rifled through their pockets, pocketing the gold for himself, before continuing to the main stronghold.

He was hit by an arrow, and hissed in pain; that archer would pay, as soon as Aran could find them. The bandits in the stronghold were better trained than the ones below, but Aran still made his way through them with relatively few wounds. A quick healing spell, and it was time to find the archer.

Aran smote her with a lightning bolt, grinning as she dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. So he was a bit psychopathic; sue him.

Entering the cave, Aran made quick work of the few bandits left, and then continued down into the catacombs with sword drawn and flames at the ready. He stayed in a crouch, hoping to pass by the draugr without awakening them. He managed for the most part, with only one near-escape; luckily, there was a long slick of oil that he was able to lead the draugrs onto before lighting it with a quick shot of his flames; they all died before they could reach him.

The giant frostbite spider gave him a bit more trouble, but after a few attacks, Aran managed to figure out its pattern and use it against the creature in order to kill it; he harvested the last of its venom, just in case.

The bandit leader tried to run after Aran extracted him from the webs, but Aran was faster-- yet another advantage of his Khajiit build. He used his claws to tear out the man's throat, grimacing and wiping the blood off of them on the newly-dead man's clothing. He retrieved the clawed glove, studying the symbols on the palm intently before pocketing it, and quickly relieved the corpse of what few useful items it possessed. Wasn't like it'd need them, here in the catacombs.

The next challenge came in the form of the draugr Overlord; he turned out not to be too much of a challenge. A fireball blast knocked him back, and a few slashes of Aran's sword was enough to take its head off. Then Aran turned his attention to the wall behind the draugr's coffin-- he'd never seen markings like these before. As he approached, Aran was aware of a strange buzzing in his ears; it grew to almost deafening levels, and Aran dropped to his knees, his vision blurring as a single Word rushed into his mind-- Fus, or Balance. Aran wasn't sure how he knew that.

The attack, or whatever it was, passed quickly, and Aran hastily made his way from the Barrow; he definitely didn't want to spend anymore time in there than necessary. The innkeeper paid him back his gold for the supplies as promised, and the innkeeper's daughter led him to the road outside of town, wishing him luck.

Luck, right. It hadn't exactly chosen to grace him with its benefits lately.


	2. Whiterun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aran hasn't seen "his" dragon for a few days-- and honestly, he'd prefer to see her rather than the behemoth currently descending out of the sky.

By the time Aran made it to Whiterun, he was vaguely pissed. Bandits, wolves, a bear... By the time he'd reached the gates, Aran had little magicka left; he'd need a while to recuperate enough for a healing spell. One of the bandits had left a nasty gash along his side; Aran was lucky he was still walking. His first stop would have to be at the temple; he'd need a priest to heal him, he didn't have enough magicka to do it himself.

Unfortunately, it seemed the guards of Whiterun had different ideas. Three of them accosted him; two were regular guards, and one was a female Dunmer. "I am Irileth," she announced. "Housecarl to Jarl Barlgruuf. You are the Khajiit from Helgen, correct?"

Aran groaned. "Yes, I am. Yes, I need to speak to Jarl Barlgruuf. But first, I need to be healed," he snapped, gesturing to his side. "I cannot do it myself."

Irileth eyed his bandages; he'd used the clothes from the bandit who'd originally wounded him. "We will stop by the temple," she decided. "Come."

Aran grumbled under his breath, but followed.

***

Luckily the healing didn't take too long, and then they were on their way to Dragonreach. The Jarl was waiting for them. "Jarl Barlgruuf," Irileth said, bowing. "I bring you the Khajiit, Aran."

Aran inclined his head, but did not bow; he did not owe this Jarl, or any other, his allegiance. The Jarl studied him. "You are the one who was saved by the dragon?"

"My neck was on the chopping block at the time, yes; however, it saved all of our lives."

"And took many others. Dragons are not good creatures, cat."

"I know that."  _But there may be one exception._ "I was sent here to tell you of the dragon; you seem to know of it already."

"Ralof stopped here before hiring a wagon to go to Windhelm. Tell me, Khajiit, why were you in Helgen?"

"Got into a brawl with some Stormcloaks; we attracted the wrong sort of attention."

The Jarl continued studying him; from the corner of his eye, Aran noticed a messenger approach Irileth and speak in tones too low for even his sensitive ears to catch clearly. Before either man could say anything else, Irileth stepped forward. "My Jarl, there is word of a dragon attacking the Western Watchtower. It appears to have a companion."

The Jarl immediately straightened. "Take soldiers with you, and take care of the dragon. Make sure to take several archers."

Aran stepped forward. "I'll go as well."

Both the Dunmer and the Jarl looked at him in surprise. "You owe Whiterun nothing; why would you volunteer?" Irileth asked suspiciously.

"I owe the dragon a headache to match my own," he retorted, baring his teeth. 

The Jarl interceded. "Enough. If the cat wishes to go, he may."

***

" _Damn_ ," Aran breathed, watching the dragon return; the archers were already drawing their bows, and Aran quickly unsheathed his own sword and called up his second-favorite spell-- Frost. He figured it would have more effect than a fire spell. There were two dragons in the sky; one, the female that had first ruined and then saved his life, the other, a stranger. The stranger was bigger than the female, and appeared to be giving chase.

Aran wanted to warn the archers not to hit the dragon being chased, but there was a thunderous sound, and then the female simply... vanished. Aran had no time to linger on this development, as the chaser, no longer having prey, fixated on his merry little band.

" _Khasit,_ " Aran hissed, dodging the first blast of flame the dragon loosed upon his group. The dragon continued circling, and Aran and the archers inundated it with everything they had, forcing it to land so that the footsoldiers could rush in. Aran followed, striking wherever he saw gaps between the scales. Bellowing in pain, the dragon took off once more, but did not do the smart thing and retreat. Rather, it had become even more enraged, and circled for a short time before landing once more. This time, however, it didn't take off. The soldiers all backed up once the dragon had given its last roar, but Aran stood, transfixed, as a white mist rose from the body, coiling into a globe roughly the size of the Khajiit's palm, and then soared, straight for Aran. It hit him dead in the chest, and the power felt like a warhorse's kick, staggering Aran, who gasped. When he felt like he could breathe again, he looked up, only to see the rest of the small contingent staring at him with various expressions.

Irileth was the first to speak. "Well, cat, it appears you are the Dragonborn. Jarl Barlgruuf will be most interested in this development."

 _Dragonborn?_ Aran mouthed the unfamiliar word slowly. He was no Dragonborn-- his parents were both Khajiit. Still confused, he followed Irileth back to the hold.

***

"So that is why the Greybeards Shouted," the Jarl of Whiterun mused. "The first Dragonborn in ages has arrived in Skyrim."

"What in the name of Oblivion  _is_ a 'Dragonborn'?" Aran demanded, his tail twitching in agitation.

"The Greybeards will be able to explain," the Jarl said simply. "You must travel to them; they have much to teach you."

Aran sighed. So much for the simple life of a petty thief he'd been hoping to return to.


End file.
